


Wise men know dark is right

by musicmillennia



Series: Glory and Gore [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Brutality, Codependency, Dark, Dom/sub Undertones, Erotophonophilia, Gore, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, Public Masturbation, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 17:43:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4714754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/musicmillennia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Because their words had forked no lightning they<br/>Do not go gentle into that good night."<br/>-Thomas</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wise men know dark is right

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Devotedly I Gazed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4024036) by [Siff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siff/pseuds/Siff). 



> "But musicmillennia, you wrote the quote wrong in the title!" yes, I know. Please understand that this change I wrote in the title, along with Siff's work, inspired this story. How could I not give the credit it was due? Bear with it and know that I know what the poem actually says/means.
> 
> WARNING: BAD STUFF AHEAD. The author does NOT condone any of the actions within this story, i.e. swallowing bits of brain, masturbating over murder, etc. etc. Furthermore, the relationships within are also UNHEALTHY and NOT ENCOURAGED BY ANY MEANS.
> 
> Please go read Siff's work. It's everything I've ever wanted out of this fandom and I adore it.

When he was a tiny child in a tinier village in Gascony, he was put in a circle by his teacher with other tiny children and asked that question every child is asked: “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

The children around him came up with fun answers like a firefighter, or a world leader, or an astronaut! He, on the other hand, had no idea what he wanted to be; something adventurous, sure, but no specific vocation came to mind when his teacher looked at him and asked the question.

So he said: “I know what I _want_. Does that count?”

And his teacher smiled that indulgent smile adults use on children like they’re nothing but dumb pups doing something cute. “Then what do you want, Charles?” she asked.

He replied, “I want to love.”

The class had laughed at him; he’d thrown his first punch that day. His teacher, however, stared at him as if she couldn’t imagine a child ever saying such a thing.

Charles thought she just didn’t understand what kind of love he wanted. Back then, though, he hadn’t the means of describing it to her. If she’d asked him today, it would be different. He look her in the eye and tell her in exact terms.

“I want to love someone so fiercely that it feels like their name is carved into my heart.”

That’s who he is, Charles. Whatever he does, whatever he thinks, it all comes from his heart first. Nothing important in his existence is registered through his mind beforehand; that doesn’t make sense to him. The heart beats life into every creature on the planet; why consult what the heart feeds before the heart itself? It’s like mounting a horse and then trying to put the saddle on.

Justice, honor, emotion—all of these necessary things stems from  that gut feeling registered from the heart’s desires. How can that be wrong?

So when he wants to love, he _wants to love_. He wants that person to become the center of his heart, the reason it keeps sending blood through his veins. He wants to feel that person as if they _were_ his heart. Is that so bad? Certainly Charles would think people would welcome a love so complete as the one to which he aspires.

Then he grows up and learns that people don’t know what love is.

Charles used to think that humans inherently know how to love, that they must be taught hate. When his father dies in his arms and the courts allow his murderer to roam free, he realizes that it’s the other way around. Can teachers teach what they don’t know? Of course not. Thus, he concludes that the last human being capable of being that teacher is dead and so the world can only know hatred.

The knowledge that he’ll never have what he desperately wants leads him to the knife the first time. He’s in college because it’s the last thing his father said he wanted for his son. Never told him to graduate, so by Charles’ standards, he’s fulfilled that wish. Now he can focus on his own.

He swipes the kitchen knife from his RA’s room. One—two-three, one—two-three. Each slice goes with the beating thing in his chest, the thing that never lets him have any peace, the thing that makes him despise every second of silence since that coffin went into the ground.

_Al—exandre. Al—exandre._ Charles’ mind starts filling in the spaces between: _Alexandre, Alexandre._ Faster and faster and fasterandfasterandfaster— _AlexandreAlexandreAlexandreAlexandre—_

His roommate screams when he opens the door to find Charles viciously cutting into every inch of skin he can get the blade into. He doesn’t understand anything about the silence, doesn’t understand that all Charles needs is for it to _stop_.

Turns out nobody understands. None of his doctors, the probing sons of bitches, who treat him like a fucking science experiment, understand; none of the nurses, the superficial cunts, look at his wretched heart with any amount of empathy; not even his own family, the liars and harlots dictating his every move, hear the silence, even when it’s at its loudest.

“Sweetheart,” his whore of a mother, who’s already remarried like she’s Queen Gertrude, tells him, “silence doesn’t have noise.”

Best way to hide among predators is to act like one, Charles figures. So he pretends he doesn’t hear the silence anymore; what cuts he makes to douse it are accomplished in secret. It’s easy to hide among these wolves when all you have to do is find out what they want. Shame they don’t do the same for him, but then, justice doesn’t exist among these mongrels.

Love doesn’t exist.

On a cold November night, Charles is proven wrong.

He’s given up on college by now, and used his inheritance to get a shithole apartment in Paris, because a city is nothing if not obnoxiously loud. He walks among the bustle as another way to stifle the silence; although it doesn’t work like it should, he can at least look forward to the knife in that apartment.

It’s almost two in the morning. Charles has long since given up on any real sleep, but he’s heading back all the same because society doesn’t like it when you stay up too late without an ounce of alcohol in you.

He pulls his dark coat closer around himself to seem like he feels the chill of late autumn and walks with quick strides. What sober people he sees don’t give him a second glance. Still, Charles takes a detour that nobody else frequents. It’s quieter, yes, but he can picture the knife as recompense.

And then he hears it. A strange noise not too far from where he’s walking. Charles hasn’t a clue what it is, but it _makes the si **lence go away.**_

Breathless from the shock of being able to _think,_ Charles stops and stands there for a moment. That heavenly noise comes again, and with it, he can feel the biting chill of the wind carrying it to his ears.

Charles follows the noise like a moth to flame. His feet are directed to a nearby alley, dimly lit but enough to see by; he stops just short of the entrance, opting to peek around the corner for fear that if he were discovered that the noise would cease.

It’s the whimpering of a man pleading for his sorry life.

Charles’ breath is stolen all over again as he takes in the prone form shoved against an unforgiving wall, a lifeless body of a woman with her vagina torn open at his feet. The rest of him is irrelevant when Charles hears the beautiful giant of a man who’s doing the shoving start talking.

“That hurt? Yeah?” his voice, heavy with malicious intent, sparks down Charles’ spine. “Bet it hurt for ‘er too, eh?”

Charles inhales sharply as the giant’s thumbs press against the man’s eyes until blood starts pouring out. Muscles flex under brown skin, rippling and clenching while the man tries to scream, but Charles sees that his mouth has been stuffed with what looks like a bandana.

A moan attracts Charles’ attention to the opposite wall of the alley, where two other men stand. The one who made the sound is gorgeous; his face alone, with its parted lips and flushed cheeks, could launch ships. Add his leaking red cock in his blood-soaked hand with his half-lidded eyes and Charles’ mouth is watering.

Yet he’s still not nearly as magnificent as the man whose shoulder his face is tucked into.

This man’s stance is calm and sure—arms crossed, back straight, expression set as a statue’s. His eyes are the bluest Charles has ever seen, especially when in contrast to his brown hair and beard. He’s the one standing the closest to Charles, and just from looking at him he can tell that this man is the leader.

The three of them together enact, take pleasure from, and witness justice. They have honor, clearly. They know what has to be done, and they do it.

All at once, Charles knows he has found what he’s been searching since that tiny village.

They can make the silence go away, can give him what he needs. In return, he’ll give them every piece of himself. It’s not a fair exchange, Charles knows, as these men deserve so much more than what he can offer, but he’s sure they can find ways for him to even things out.

“Do it,” says the leader, whose voice Charles would gladly die for.

“ _Please_ do,” says his gorgeous companion, whose voice Charles would gladly kill for.

“Hear that?” says the giant with the dark curls, whose voice Charles would gladly tear the world apart for. “Our time’s up.”

The man whimpers again. Charles watches with bated breath as the giant reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a gleaming blade.

“Normally I’d just use my ‘ands,” he continues, “but we’ve got somewhere t’be.”

He scoops out the man’s eyes with his knife, making Charles weak at the knees. The needy groan rips from his throat before he has a chance to stop it.

All eyes snap to him. Berating himself, Charles slaps a hand over his mouth. Surely they’ll stop now, leave the body, and he’ll never see them again—

“We have a visitor,” the leader says.

“He sounds like my kind of people,” laughs his gorgeous companion, “Whatever will we do with him, Athos?”

Charles suppresses a shiver of want as the name soaks his ears like a balm. _Athos._

_Athos._

Something shines in those blue eyes, something that wasn’t there before.

Athos beckons like Death himself, and Charles can only think to obey. He stumbles from his hiding spot and over to Athos until they’re almost toe to toe. The scents of blood, pre-come, and something entirely _Athos_ invades his nostrils and within seconds he’s drunk on it all.

“Kneel.”

Charles’ knees hit the pavement. He’s rewarded by Athos’ hand cupping his chin. It feels exquisite, and his eyes start to close—“Look at me,”—before snapping open again.

“Tell us your name.”

“Charles D’Artagnan,” Charles pants, his heart beating like a jack-rabbit in his ribcage.

“What do others call you?”

“Charles.”

Athos hums. “Then we’ll refer to you as D’Artagnan.” D’Artagnan nods against the blissfully warm fingers. “When you saw us, your first instinct was to watch. You didn’t run, you didn’t scream. So, without hesitating, tell me—” he yanks D’Artagnan’s head to the side so he and the beautiful giant lock eyes, “—what do you see?”

D’Artagnan replies instantly: “I see justice.”

The giant smirks, and oh, to be in love. “Really now? Sure you weren’t just lookin’ at Aramis there?”

“I saw you first.”

Athos hums again. “Honest. Good.” he turns D’Artagnan back to him, swiping his thumb across the younger’s cheek like a master petting his dog.

“Give him the order, Athos,” Aramis— _AramisAramisAramisAramis_ —purrs.

“No, I have a better idea. Porthos?”

_PorthosPorthosPorthosPorthosPorthos_ … _AthosAramisPorthosAthosAramisPorthos_. D’Artagnan slumps into Athos’ grip, finally feeling complete.

“Yeah, I got somethin’ in mind,” Porthos replies. “Hand ‘im over.”

Athos releases him. “Go.”

D’Artagnan gets to his feet and approaches Porthos, legs trembling like a toddler’s. Now that he can think, can feel, can _be_ , he has to relearn how to function from the bottom up.

But that’s alright, because they can show him how.

“Alright, kid—”

“Never call me that.”

D’Artagnan will do anything for them, anything. But he is not some empty-headed child; if he follows them, it will be at their side.

Porthos laughs. “Lively little bugger, ain’t yah? Alright, _D’Artagnan_. You wanna really impress us?” he digs his fingers into the empty sockets of the man and rubs the bits all over his hands. Next, he holds one out to D’Artagnan. “Clean me up.”

A primal thrill shoots through D’Artagnan as he grabs Porthos’ thick palm. Maybe they’re expecting him to wipe the blood and pieces of brain off with his coat, but D’Artagnan doesn’t do things half-assed, especially when an opportunity like this presents itself.

Aramis curses behind him in what sounds like Spanish as D’Artagnan starts licking Porthos’ hand. He starts from the wrist up to the tips of the fingers, suckling on the latter like a newborn babe. Satisfaction pulses through him when he hears Athos murmur his approval, but it’s Porthos’ growling “How’d you _know_?” that has him moaning around the blood and brains.

It’s a strange taste and texture, metallic with something like cooked meat, soft and chewy. D’Artagnan never knew that joy could be a tangible thing. Perhaps it’s because he’s doing it for _them_ that makes it so good.

A minute passes before Athos yanks him back by the hair.

“Swallow,” he orders. D’Artagnan obeys. “You show promise, D’Artagnan. One final test for you.”

“Does ‘e really need it?” Porthos asks, voice low and hoarse and _perfect_. “After that—”

“Rules are rules,” Athos interrupts. “D’Artagnan, exact justice on that man.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes widen. “You would let me—?”

Athos lets him go. “Yes.”

“How?”

“However you wish,” Aramis moans, “just make sure I can see it. Porthos is so terrible about that.”

“Oi!”

D’Artagnan eyes Porthos’ knife. “May I?”

The grin he receives is even better than Athos’ order. “By all means,” Porthos hands it over.

D’Artagnan sizes up the culprit. After a moment’s thought, he unbuckles the man’s jeans, making sure to step to the side so Aramis can see like he wanted to.

“First thing’s first,” he says, and cuts off the wretch’s dick. When he tries to scream, D’Artagnan shoves his fist against his throat and snarls, “Don’t squeal like you’re something I could pity. Make another sound, and it’s your balls.”

Aramis mewls. D’Artagnan tries not to grin; he’s pleasing them!

When the man is reduced once more to whimpers, D’Artagnan carefully removes the bandana.

“Now then,” he says, making his voice sound milder, “I think it’s time you learned your lesson, don’t you?” more whimpers. “I thought so. Hold still.”

He opens the man’s mouth and—shoves his severed dick down his throat.

As he chokes to death, Aramis comes with D’Artagnan’s name on his lips.

“ _Amazing_ ,” Aramis hisses, “Athos, he’s amazing.” D’Artagnan preens, trying in vain to hide it as he faces them again.

“That’s it,” Porthos says with finality, “you’re comin’ home with us.”

And for the first time since he can remember, D’Artagnan laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're wondering how that man survived with bits of his brain missing, Porthos only took pieces of the frontal lobe. It is possible to live without that, though the victim experiences paralysis and such. This guy would've died anyway, though, even if D'Artagnan hadn't choked him like he did.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading. I really want to do more of these, because they are so fun to write. Be warned that more rarepairs are in this AU, like Athos/Constance.
> 
> Also, as to the series name: the Lorde song was obviously the inspiration behind that. Listen to it! It's fun times! Another reminder: GO READ SIFF'S WORK IF YOU LIKE THIS SORTA STUFF! You are not alone in your reading preferences, and they've got some great dark!Musketeers.


End file.
